Then Martin took the tiller while Foy watched Hans.  In ten minutes he was dead.

Now they were running northwards with a fierce wind abeam of them, and the larger Spanish ship behind, but standing further out to sea to avoid the banks.  Half an hour later the wind, which was gathering to a gale, shifted several points to the north, so that they must beat up against it under reefed canvas.  Still they held on without accident, Foy attending to the sail and Martin steering.  The Swallow was a good sea boat, and if their progress was slow so was that of their pursuer, which dogged them continually, sometimes a mile away and sometimes less.  At length, towards evening, they caught sight of a ruined house that marked the channel of the little gut, one of the outlets of the Haarlem Mere.

“The sea runs high upon the bar and it is ebb tide,” said Foy.

“Even so we must try it, master,” answered Martin.  “Perhaps she will scrape through,” and he put the Swallow about and ran for the mouth of the gut.

Here the waves were mountainous and much water came aboard.  Moreover, three times they bumped upon the bar, till at length, to their joy, they found themselves in the calm stream of the gut, and, by shifting the sail, were able to draw it up, though very slowly.

“At least we have got a start of them,” said Foy, “for they can never get across until the tide rises.”

“We shall need it all,” answered Martin; “so now hoist the white flag and let us eat while we may.”

While they ate the sun sank, and the wind blew so that scarcely could they make a knot an hour, shift the sail as they might.  Then, as there was no sign of Mother Martha, or any other pilot, they hung out the four lamps upon the starboard side, and, with a flapping sail, drifted on gradually, till at length they reached the mouth of the great mere, an infinite waste of waters—­deep in some places, shallow in others, and spotted everywhere with islets.  Now the wind turned against them altogether, and, the darkness closing in, they were forced to drop anchor, fearing lest otherwise they should go ashore.  One comfort they had, however:  as yet nothing could be seen of their pursuers.

Then, for the first time, their spirits failed them a little, and they stood together near the stern wondering what they should do.  It was while they rested thus that suddenly a figure appeared before them as though it had risen from the deck of the ship.  No sound of oars or footsteps had reached their ears, yet there, outlined against the dim sky, was the figure.

“I think that friend Hans has come to life again,” said Martin with a slight quaver in his voice, for Martin was terribly afraid of ghosts.

“And I think that a Spaniard has found us,” said Foy, drawing his knife.

Then a hoarse voice spoke, saying, “Who are you that signal for a pilot on my waters?”

“The question is—­who are you?” answered Foy, “and be so good as to tell us quickly.”